Heartless
by dirtymangoes
Summary: Peter/Edmund. It’s all work for the new Kings. All balls and wars. Sometimes they just need a break. Especially from dance lessons.
1. Archery Stringless

**Peter/Edmund, Susan – Archery (Stringless)**  
**Rating: M**

_Peter, Edmund and Susan make a bet with each other over a game of archery._

Edmund's sitting, watching, waiting, wishing, listening. He watches Peter drop on a knee to pick up a short bow from their collection beside him.

"Now, now. No need to kneel in front of King Edmund, High King. This King already knows he's brilliant," Edmund jokes, avoids the jab that Peter makes for his shoulder with well-practised evasion.

"Lovely, Ed."

Edmund's smile is cattish. "I know."

Susan's laughing, and Peter's busy. He nocks an arrow against the string, holds it at a ready then lets it go.

"Wow," Edmund whistles, sees the arrow stabbed deep in the centre. Susan nods in approval. Obviously her invitation for them to go for archery practice was in good form.

Edmund gets up. It's his turn to strike.

Peter lets Edmund brush a thumb over his knuckle, lets the contact linger, when Edmund bends to pick up his bow and draws it. Edmund sends Peter a wink.

"I bet you your crown I can hit the eye," Edmund tells him with a grin. Peter's watching him, with a smirk so soft it's barely noticeable.

"A slack wager," Susan says, who's already released five arrows that's landed dead centre with ease when Edmund's yet to let even one fly. "Edmund might surprise you, Peter. I wouldn't take it," is her advisement.

"Oh?" is Peter's stray comment whilst he watches them, his bow settled at his side. Edmund and Susan are poised. Their strings tense, a blatant contradiction to their bodies that speak of relaxation, loose, but languid determination hiding sneakily underneath.

Edmund hushes his sister with an ill-concealed beam, trying hard to stifle the grin that quirks at the corners of his mouth.

"You're no fun, Susan."

Susan lets another arrow fly.

Her response is dry, all faux hurt and familial familiarly, an elegant brow lifted at Edmund's words, "Oh, Ed. It's why you love me."

"Too true," Peter adds. Edmund laughs.

Then Edmund shoots.

Edmund's arrow is an accompaniment to Susan's. Edmund's arrow is all whizz and speed, his arrow lodges deep into the straw target in the amount of time it takes for a heart to beat. If Susan draws her bow like a graceful swan, Edmund is equally as polished, no hesitance falters his form, and only the slightest shift in his stance marks him just a notch below excellence. His imperfection is a close rival to Susan's perfection.

"Impressive," is all the High King can say. His brother lets fly better than him.

Edmund shrugs in modesty. He knows he can't compare to Susan, but he tries. Peter gets back up, bow in hand, and they're practising again and again. Playing music with their bows, a symphony of whisks and whizzes, one after the other.

The siblings are all grace and power, their forms light but trained. They hold secret strength in their fingers, their eyes are all free and dark and light at the same time; mirroring the underlying years of experience they have – that outnumber the years they've actually come to live.

Ten or so shots later, when they've already felt the beat of the wind against their shots, familiarised themselves with the slender body of a bow, Susan proposes a little wager.

"A game?" Edmund repeats. Edmund's curious, drops his bow to his side with an off frown of uncertainty. Even Peter has to admit he's a little interested.

"If I get an arrow in before either of you, you both have to go to dance lessons with me and Lucy for a week," Susan says, folds her arms over her chest, checks her nails in bored fashion.

"That's not a very fun game." Edmund pales, looks rather sick, and Peter remembers how his brother absolutely abhors lessons, any sort of lessons, especially dance lessons. Edmund is the sort of person who's willing to do anything to get out of it.

"Or fair," Edmund decides to add, looking completely unsure now.

"And if we win?" Peter cuts in, his voice all smooth and butter. He's interested in what his sister has to offer. Not of the odds of the game.

"Well," Susan picks at some invisible dust on her shoulder like it bothers her, brushes it off with fingers calloused hard from archery. "I don't think it's necessary for either of you to be at the Summers Night ball, much, is it?"

The way Edmund's gripping Peter's tunic from behind in a delicious twist is Edmund's silent affirmation. Edmund wants out of the ball. Enough to take this risqué dare. And if Peter's with him, it makes the bet all the more tempting. They can find better ways to spend their time after all. Their odds are small against their sister, but there's two of them and only one of Susan. No matter how brilliant Susan is with her bow, they have the upper hand. The odds say otherwise to her skill.

"Alright," Peter says. He really doesn't mind either way. He always likes a good challenge. Going to the lessons or not really doesn't bother him, unlike the way it bothers Edmund.

Susan's smiling a smile that is all gentle like her title and devilish at the same time. It's all honey and more, and Peter admits that he's somewhat worried now. Edmund doesn't seem to notice as he digs for his lucky arrow, prays with all his heart and hope it helps.

Edmund's body is of nerve and focus. Edmund steadies his form, concentrates, murmuring an endless bout of ino ball, no ball, no ball–/i under his breath, hopes it's enough. The string feels stringless in-between Edmund's fingers.

"Ready," Susan calls.

They nock their bows at her words, their strings drawn, points at a ready. Edmund sends a little prayer to Aslan.

"iFly./i"

Susan's long released the string of her bow before either Peter or Edmund even catch sight of the arrow's red tail embedding itself deep into red straw.

Edmund is flabbergasted.

"I'll see you boys at lessons later." Susan's voice is all silk and cream, peaches and passionfruit.

It's only when Edmund and Peter watch Susan the Gentle disappear back to the castle that they realise they never stood a chance.


	2. Duels Limbless

**Peter/Edmund – Duels (Limbless) **

_Peter and Edmund work their frustrations out over a spar. It soon becomes a game between children._

The bruises are forming fast on his legs and arms, throbbing dully. Peter catches a glimpse of Edmund's own bruises, a darkening hue of purple against his skin when his shirt lifts as he lashes out, reveals a smooth stomach.

Peter doesn't have much time to admire.

The swipe from Edmund's fist has Peter pushing back, feet digging into the dirt to contrast the velocity of Edmund's strikes prior.

They're trading blows in rapid contest, beating on one another relentlessly.

It's unarmed combat, a friendly spar; a clear release of tension. Only fists and legs, no blades nor bows, only bodies not otherwise. Just raw power, speed and flexibility. And while Edmund doesn't have enough of the former to be able to compare to Peter, he's got a lot of the latter.

Edmund might fall to Peter's blade, but he gives Peter a fight he'll remember when it comes to bare hands alone.

Edmund's quick, very quick, nearly a godlike quick, swift and light on the balls of his feet. Dancing lessons has Edmund faster, better, but Peter's able to rival. He's been taking the exact same lessons.

And while, Peter can keep up, Peter still has a hard time evading, much less blocking. Edmund's kicks are all wiry and lightning, sharp and unstoppable. Edmund kicks with the sort of grace that rivals Susan's nocked arrows, fights with the type of belief that Lucy carries in her knife and entire being, and doesn't stop like the unending passion Peter holds in his sword and heart for Narnia.

Both Kings are frustrated. Aggravation etched in their skin.

The way Peter's body is strung tense like a bow shows how burdensome his duties as King are becoming. That Peter doesn't have time to relax with paperwork, meetings and endless responsibilities.

And while Edmund might be Edmund the Just, he has just as much stress on his person as Peter does. With suitors constantly at his feet and duties that drive him up the wall and having need to travel in Peter's place for treaties and constantly upholding good relations with other lands.

Being Kings of Narnia takes more effort than it should.

Edmund's limbs are loose, his body limber as he spins on his heel, lashes his leg out to snap Peter back, causes Peter to dig deeper into the dirt, feels his boots burn beneath his feet.

Peter evades the strike. In time for Edmund to send a punch to his stomach.

Peter blocks it, catches Edmund's fist in his hand.

Edmund's eyes narrow, he tries to pull back. Peter's got Edmund's fist in a grip that's vicelike. Edmund's growling, saying something dirty that Peter can't hear beyond the hard thumps of his heart, and the furious drive of his other fist to Edmund's face.

"Woah!"

Edmund feels the force of Peter's punch, feels the wind stir, not so gentle against his skin, as he avoids it, with only centimetres to spare. The wind's sharp, grazes Edmund's cheek.

They're kicking at each other wildly; Peter with Edmund's fist in his hand, refusing to let go. Edmund's jerking back, then sweeping a leg to knock Peter down. With a force like thunder that's soundless but terrifying nonetheless.

Peter doesn't fall for it, but finds himself flat on his back when Edmund slips a foot behind Peter's ankle and when Peter takes a step backwards not forwards, a mistake, he goes crashing against twigs and dirt.

Peter and Edmund are struggling on the ground when they land, rolling around madly.

They're crushing rocks and branches and little woodland creatures are scurrying away frantically because neither are giving up.

Peter's frowning, chest lifting up and down on its own in a manic pattern, and Edmund's heaving just as bad on top of him when they decide to pause, a break in their continuity. Edmund's straddling Peter's waist, a grin on his lips.

"You're heavy, Ed," Peter chokes out finally, wheezes it out with a gasp, slams his eyes shut to get the sun's glare out of his eyes.

Edmund swats at Peter's arm, more tired than playful but carrying the exact meaning all the same.

"Just because you're under me, Peter," Edmund tells him. His grin widens and he rocks his hips happily, rather likes the feel of his King beneath him. "High King isn't all that high now, is he?" Edmund thrills in his perceived victory.

He works his fingers through Peter's hair in absent amusement.

"Oh, Ed," is all Peter can say, with a voice that is both lecturing and sympathetic and Edmund really doesn't get it-

--until he finds himself with ihis /iback against the ground, rocks against his ear.

"High King's always on top," Peter explains simply, satisfaction underlines his words. Edmund's lips come to form into something that looks parallel to a pout, though not as demeaning and Peter's laughing.

Peter brushes dirty fingers against Edmund's cheek, tries to brush away the dirt on Edmund away to no avail, realises he's only made it worse. Peter's touch has Edmund's skin alight.

Edmund is teasing, despite current circumstances being against him, lets his hips work in attempts to shove Peter off, even though Edmund's tired and sore from sparring and dance lessons. The bruises are starting to take real form on their wrists and arms, Edmund feels an ache from where Peter struck at his hip bone earlier, feels the pressure send him into a tired pain.

Their blows from before had connected. Their strikes flowed like liquid. Battered against them until it left a dirty aftertaste in their mouths. They have bruises to mark their time today.

Edmund doesn't like settling for second-best. "High King needs dosages of reality from time to time."

The blink that Peter never quite gets to experience when he finds that Edmund's thrust him back against the ground with a rampant roll is surprising. Edmund straddles him firmer this time around, movements a little more jerky, his limbs aching.

His hips have Peter settled.

Edmund's pleased with himself, Peter can tell from the way his eyes are dancing.

"Actually, this position isn't as degrading as it seems," Peter informs him, takes the victory out of Edmund's hands. He reemphasizes, lets his hips thrust upwards to meet Edmund's in a slow roll, "_Really_."

Edmund's eyes snap shut. He licks his lips. Doesn't like losing. The bruises on his wrist from blocking Peter's punch earlier hurting less. Peter wraps his fingers around Edmund's wrist, lightly smooths the skin to bring some relief. It leaves Edmund tingling all over.

"Thought you liked being on top, Peter," Edmund reminds him, lets his head sag lazily against Peter's chest, his hands explorative, works their way up Peter's body, smoothing over the expanse, massaging the knots in his shoulder with calloused fingers.

Peter's eyes are to the sky. To Peter, the sun's glare isn't all that bad anymore.

Peter tells him honestly, is relaxing despite himself, closes his eyes, sighs a soft sleepy sigh, brings his hands to wrap around Edmund's form, "I think I prefer you being on top."

Edmund's grinning against Peter's chest, savours in what he thinks is a win. He twists his fingers against the material of Peter's shirt, bunching it up with a tired smile. Peter's caressing the muscles at his hip, is working them smooth.

"Of course."

Edmund's breathing's slowed and steadied now, the weariness he feels in his bones beginning to ease. His limbs are all jelly, and he melts, satiated, frustrations exhausted, worked away from their spar, with Peter holding him close and warm and tight.

Edmund murmurs a soft _'course_ repeat of escape under his breath as he falls to sleep, loose and limbless in Peter's arms. The sun glares overhead, the Kings of Narnia to rest, angry shades of violet clear against white on their bodies, the game lost between them.

It's Lucy who finds them. Stumbles across them, to be exact.

She's taking a walk in the woods just a little north of the castle with Mr Tumnus when they come across her brothers. Deep asleep, wrapped and tangled and free in one another's arms, bruises forming on their forearms and wrists, frustrations worked away by the heat of the sun.


End file.
